VIIII
by btyrhrtout
Summary: Post Episode VIII. A storm blows into Nassau and brings trouble for Jack. M for language and smut. I could write Jack and Anne all day, if it didn't make me feel ridiculous.


Jack hardly felt the rain, though in the bare minutes it took to to reach the lodging house it had managed to soak him through. It was a narrow, tall building covered more in splinters than paint, capped with a rusted roof that billowed orange flakes with every gust of wind that came off the harbor. The mouldering balcony hung at a crazy angle over the street below. It was the type of place he shunned under normal circumstances, unless absolutely necessary.

He burst through the open door. With the heavy weather outside and lack of light, his entrance went largely unnoticed.

The room was crowded with men drinking. Most faces were familiar. He'd likely seen two-thirds of Nassau through his establishment's own doors during the past few days of the storm, and these were the ones who had no more coin for whores but just enough for rum. Jack considered himself fairly observant- one had to be, in his professions- but the one face he did not see in the crowd was Anne. He strode to the bar and leaned over, trying to keep his voice low.

"Where is she?" he said to the innkeep, a squinting, leathery-skinned bald man that had an affinity for being urinated on, if the girls could be believed. They usually couldn't, unless it was about a man's particularities in the bedroom. Then they believed in sharing the most graphic and honest detail.

"Rackham, I'll have no trouble here-"

"Sir, I assure you, I will liberate your head from your shoulders without a moment's hesitation if you do not give an immediate answer to my question." Jack's hand dropped, but before he could grasp the hilt of his blade, the man's eyes tightened even further and he nodded all too quickly.

"Aye."

Somewhere inside his head, beneath the anger and anxiety and everything else, Jack was amused. He had never really inspired

before, not without Vane or Anne or another suitably scary cohort beside him, and certainly not on his own after only one sentence. This man looked fit to piss his breeches right there.

"Third floor. Last door. The red one."

"Thank you." He spun on his heel, blood pounding in his ears, and crossed the sticky floor towards the staircase.

"Oi, Jack!" a wall-eyed sailor in a stained vest called out as he passed, but he paid the man no mind as he ascended the rickety stairs two at a time.

It got quieter as he climbed, the noise from the bar dropping away. By the time he got to the third floor, the only sound was the rain drumming against the metal roof. At the end of the narrow hallway was the red door, just as the innkeep had said. Like a bull to a cape, he charged toward it, then reached out to grasp the chipped porcelain doorknob.

Here, he hesitated. Water puddled from his boots onto the uneven floorboards. Every muscle in his body was tense, and he was aware of gooseflesh on his wet skin despite the stuffy heat of the slope-ceilinged top floor. It was quiet, so quiet. All he could hear was the incessant rain. His fingers trembled as they flexed toward the doorknob again, then abruptly stopped.

There was another sound then from behind the door. A low, throaty laugh. A woman's laugh.

It was like a kick to the balls. Knife to the gut. Noose around the neck. Water in the lungs. It was all of that and worse. He had never heard Anne sound like that before. Her laughs were usually cruel, and accompanied some sort of grievous bodily harm. And now someone else was making her laugh like… well, like a lady. It was too much, simply too much. He grabbed the doorknob and wrenched it open, pulling his cutlass a few inches from the sheath with the other hand.

She stood with her back towards him as he stepped into the room. A single candle danced in the breeze that slipped through the cracks in the closed shutters, tracing patterns of light over the smooth flesh. A man sat on the bed, face in shadow. All he could look at, though, was Anne's naked skin, ghostly in the dimness. His eyes traced the curves of her body, almost unrecognizable in this place. The contents of his belly seemed to be crawling up the back of his throat, and he was fairly sure he was going to be sick.

His stomach dropped again, somewhere to the vicinity of his ankles, as the naked woman turned to face him.

The silence seemed to last about four days, but then he spoke, very slowly. "I… see."

And in a way, he did. The long hair that spilled down the woman's back was brown, not red. Her breasts were large and heavy, not small and high. Her eyes were darker, hips wider, mouth smaller. And yet he knew that face… just not as a woman. He was looking at the smiling face of Mark Read.

"Put up your steel, Jack," Anne murmured, sitting up on the bed so he could see her face. Her hair was hanging loose and damp over her shoulders, hat lying discarded beside her. And she was dressed. Overdressed, in fact, for one on a bed, but boots and blades off. He had never witnessed a more beautiful sight.

He slid his sword back into the sheath. "Is someone going to tell me just what the fuck is going on?"

"Certainly," the naked woman said. "I've been expecting you. Shut the door, would you,

?"

He obliged as she opened one of the shutters, letting in a gust of cool air and a narrow view across the stormy harbour to the fortress. The rain gave it a wispy, dream-like quality.

"Wine?" she asked, pouring a generous serving of red into a glass.

"No," he replied, settling against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest. After a moment, he held up his forefinger. "On second thought, yes."

She laughed throatily, the same laugh he had heard from the hallway. It hadn't been Anne after all. "You likely need it. Anne,

, for you?"

"No." Her voice was quiet.

Jack accepted the glass, sipping it thoughtfully as he watched the woman, who up until that morning had been passably disguised as a barrel-chested sailor. She shrugged into a gauzy robe, which she then belted loosely around her waist. It did nothing to cover her obvious femininity. She poured herself a glass and sat at the small table beside the tall window, breasts bouncing.

"Who are you?" he asked. "Your name certainly isn't Mark."

"No indeed. It's Mary. Mary Read."

Nearly a week before, a Dutch ship,

had dropped anchor briefly, unloading a small cargo of chocolate before being chased off by rumors of heavy weather. On the day it left with the morning tide, storms rolled in and the skies opened up.

That afternoon, Jack had been at his usual table in the corner, trying to angle himself in such a way that the rain leaking from the roof didn't soak the pages of his ledger while still allowing him enough light from the lamp to see.

Over the general din, he heard Idelle giggle loudly in a particularly insipid way, the way she did when someone was emptying his purse in pursuit of her.

"Balls," he swore as rain dribbled onto the line he had just completed, turning the neatly penned numbers into a gray smudge. He daubed at the paper with the sleeve of his shirt, and had just inked his pen again when a steady stream of water extinguished his lamp. With a sigh, he sat back and looked around the room.

The brothel was busy for this time of day. The rain had begun a few hours earlier and had shown no signs of letting up, putting a stop to most work and driving men out of tents on the beach and into places that offered more substantial protection from the weather. Diversions were just as important as a solid roof, if not more so. He counted a dozen girls, each with a customer, and knew there were a few already upstairs. A knot of men he recognized from the crew of the

stood at the bar, drinking from mismatched cups and arguing.

On the balcony above, he could see Anne and Max standing at the balustrade, the former honing the edge of a dagger as the latter was fiddling with the shoulder of Anne's coat with a needle and thread. Though Anne claimed to despise Max, Jack suspected she was growing rather fond of her. More often than not, if Anne was not sitting sullenly beside him, she was sitting sullenly beside Max, responding to the other woman with grunts or single-word answers when not ignoring them outright. The other whores gave Anne a wide berth, but Max would cheerfully sit beside her for an entire evening, before Anne stalked angrily away to bed. It seemed to amuse her to bait Anne. Then again, Max wasn't exactly a whore any longer.

Idelle laughed too loudly again, and he glanced over in irritation. It was a most grating sound, and even though it meant more money in his pocket at the end of the day, he couldn't help but cringe a bit every time he heard it.

They were seated in an alcove by the large staircase, the table in front of them littered with dishes and a very large bottle. She was bouncing theatrically on the knee of a man who was currently whispering in her ear. He had one arm wrapped cozily around her waist, the other hand caressing her bare breast. The wide brim of a low-crowned hat hid his face.

Jack was not sure he knew the man. That was not entirely unusual, as the port attracted a wide variety of vagabonds. He watched as the man pulled away from Idelle's ear, and that notion was reaffirmed. The man was a stranger, with a heart-shaped face and the smoothest cheeks Jack had ever seen on a sailor. He looked to be young, barely twenty, but his dark eyes crinkled at the corners in a way that made him seem much older. His dark hair appeared to be the same inconvenient length that Vane's was, but most of it was pulled back beneath the hat. Idelle was twisting a loose piece between her fingers and stroking his cheek, giggling all the while.

As he watched, they got to their feet, and Idelle took his hand. Her cheeks were flushed and her black hair tousled like she'd just spent an hour on her back, and all she had been doing was sitting on the man's lap. The stranger looked up and caught Jack's eye, and winked in a most obnoxious fashion. Jack groaned audibly as the man made his way over to him, Idelle trailing behind him.

"

," he said in an unexpected accent, beaming from ear to ear. "A fine establishment you have here."

"I'm not a captain," Jack replied. "A quartermaster. Formerly." This only made the man smile more. Standing up, he was shorter, and broader about the chest than Jack had originally anticipated. His shirt was tight across the shoulders and upper torso, and looser across the belly.

"You speak Dutch then."

"A bit."

"Well, on the sea, perhaps you are a quartermaster, but here, you are captain of the most splendid vessels a man has ever seen."

It was an absurd thing to say, possibly one of the most ridiculous Jack had ever heard, and he worked in the art of bullshit for a living. It didn't even make sense. Idelle tittered tipsily, her voice raising another octave as she gazed at the stranger with adoring eyes. She was so besotted that she did not notice the glare that Jack shot her.

"You came with the

, then?" It wasn't exactly a question, but Jack had an odd feeling about this stranger.

"

," he corrected Jack's pronunciation. "Your accent is passable. And yes, I did. I lost my appetite for chocolate though, so I decided to see what flavors New Providence had to offer."

"Rumor has it Idelle tastes of oranges and coffee," he answered, ignoring her giggle. He turned his attention back to his ledger, which was now dotted with smeared ink. The whole thing would have to be rewritten.

"Then I must be sure to savor her."

"Don't let me keep you." Jack waved his hand dismissively. The man was clearly just a randy sailor with a taste for overstatement, possibly highborn in another life before turning to the sea. The sooner Idelle got down to fucking him, the sooner Jack could get on with his life. Even now, she was unlacing her corset in expectation, exposing the other breast, and yet the stranger made no move to leave.

"Certainly not. I have enjoyed our conversation, Jack-"

"Mr. Rackham." He glanced behind the man, and noticed that Anne had just stood up from the table beside Max, a sour expression on her face. Sighing inwardly, he focused his eyes on the strange man in front of him.

"Apologies. Mr. Rackham. My name is Mark Read."

Jack cocked an eyebrow at the man. "That's a very English name for a Dutchman."

Mark Read made a small bow with his head, smiling all the while. "Just so. I am afraid I cannot wait another moment to taste this lovely creature beside me. Until we meet again."

They ascended the stairs, the man's hand steadily working up the back of Idelle's skirt. At the same time, Anne was on her way down, and as she drew even with them, she did a double-take. When she moved past them, the Dutchman paused on the stair. He was watching Anne over his shoulder, that smile on his face.

Jack liked that not at all. He watched as Idelle pulled the man bodily up onto the landing and into her room, shutting the door behind them. Anne seemed not to notice.

"Who's that smiley bastard?" she growled, dropping into the chair beside him.

"Mark Read, he says. Came in with the

Unfortunately didn't leave with her. Do you know him?"

"Know him?"

"You looked at him a second time. As if you recognized him."

She shook her head and shrugged out of her coat. He watched as she picked at the stitches Max had just put into the worn fabric. After a moment, she looked up. "What?"

"Nothing."

They sat in silence. Jack had just lit the lamp again and turned his attention back to his ledger when she slapped her coat down onto the tabletop. "I hate this."

"This weather?" When he caught a look at her face, it was all he could do not to wince. She was in one of her moods again.

"

. This place. These whores. These men that buy these whores. Sitting here, day after fucking day. I hate it all."

"Darling, I-"

"I've waited. You told me to wait, and I've waited. Now I'm fucking tired of waiting."

"I am aware-"

"If I wanted to stay on dry land, I would still be in Kinsale." She spat the name of the village she hadn't seen in going on a decade, as if it still tasted bad to her.

Jack tapped the ledger. "I know that. Money is coming in. Soon I'll be able to-"

"What's soon? A week? A month? A year?"

He gestured to the door. No one was to be seen, though it was the middle of the afternoon. The rain was a sheet. The sand in the street was the consistency of mud. "We aren't sailing anywhere in this. As soon as this lets up, I have some leads to follow up on, and-"

"I want to be out by the time Flint gets back."

"Are you going to let me finish a sentence?"

She glowered at him beneath her curtain of hair. "Depends on what you got to say."

"Why are you so eager to be away before Flint returns?"

"Do you want to see them come back on our ship with the biggest prize this pissing island has ever seen, while we stand on the beach with nothing?"

"Of course not."

He was very fond of the

, she was a good ship, but he did not share that affection for his crewmates that had defected to Flint and Gates. Nor was there any love lost between himself and Flint's crew. No, he had no real desire to see any of them return victorious, except for perhaps the ship herself. He'd have gladly taken her off of Vane's hands when had he decided to go round up a group of barbarians and play King o' the Mountain in Hornigold's fort, but Eleanor Guthrie had put that particular fancy to death before it had really even begun, and Vane had sealed the tomb.

Still, with Vane acting with an uncharacteristically unhinged lunacy, as opposed to his normal, intense lunacy, and Eleanor Guthrie sitting at her tavern with her consortium twiddling her thumbs and awaiting Flint's return, perhaps the time was ripe to make a move.

He stroked his moustache thoughtfully. "We'll have ship soon enough, and a crew as well. A good crew, not the unwashed miscreants that Vane kept about. I have several ideas, darling-"

"You always have

." Anne got to her feet and stalked away, up the stairs and into the room they shared. He couldn't hear the door rattle in the frame, but he knew she had slammed it. He would have been surprised if she hadn't.

It was so late that it was actually early, but he had started sketching out an idea and hadn't been able to stop. Most everyone had retreated upstairs or out into the weather. Near the door, Hafisitou was speaking in low tones with a man that came in to see her regularly, paying dearly to have a conversation in his native tongue, and a tall Portuguese man with a braid halfway to the floor was passed out on the bar, snoring lightly. No one else was in sight. The rain was still falling steadily, and a gusty thunderstorm had blown through sometime after midnight.

He gathered up his papers and pen and got to his feet, stretching. His neck ached and his eyes felt dry and itchy, but he was calm. He walked up the stairs, yawning, and shuffled into the bedroom. Anne had left the shutters open, and rain had soaked a crescent shape into the floor. His clean shirt that hung on the chair near the window was now dripping rainwater steadily onto the floor, but he found he wasn't much fussed.

She laid in the bed facing away from him, not moving. He wrenched off his boots and belt and crept into the bed beside her, too tired to change out of the rest of his clothes. His eyes had just closed when she sat up. The ropes holding the mattress creaked, and the whole bed swayed as she got to her knees.

"Anne?"

He turned over, looking for the glint of a dagger, but she was simply hiking up her shirt over her narrow hips.

She seized the fastenings of his trousers. A button popped off in her haste, and he heard it roll beneath the bed. He was used to Anne's capricious sexual appetite, and had no trouble getting aroused. In a minute, she was on top of him, slamming her body into his. It was not altogether unpleasant, though he was moderately concerned that she might snap something important. Anne fucked like she did everything else- aggressively.

He reached up to brush her hair back, to touch her face, but she leaned away and pushed his hands down onto her breasts instead. When he traced his fingers down towards her waist, she lifted them back onto her breasts. He obliged willingly enough.

"Anne-"

She pressed her palm over his mouth, and dropped the other hand between her legs. He couldn't see exactly what she was doing with it, but it was obvious she had one goal in mind.

Her breathing was faster now, coming in quick, shallow gasps. It was black as pitch in the room, no moonlight to see by, but he could feel her muscles tensing. Her hips bucked furiously, grinding into his pelvic bone, and a low choking moan escaped from her mouth as she shuddered.

Jack eagerly anticipated her regaining her breath and starting again, this time with a slower rhythm. He did not expect her to climb off of him and slide off the bed, which was precisely what she did. A few moments later, he heard the water in the washbasin.

"Anne." He was in that strange state between pleasure and intense discomfort.

She got back onto the bed. He reached towards her, but she stuffed something in his hand and turned on her side away from him. It was a damp flannel.

"Anne!"

She did not reply.

It took him another moment to realize that she had taken her pleasure and left him to his own devices. Angrily, he finished himself off, wiping his hands clean with the flannel and turning over, scowling into the darkness. He was still scowling when sleep found him.

When he woke the next morning, Anne was gone, leaving behind rumpled sheets and a dent in her pillow. Rain was still pouring down, and thunder rumbled over the fort. At least he thought it was thunder. For all he knew, Vane was firing cannons at seagulls.

Someone knocked on the door.

"Come in." he said, arranging the blankets over himself.

The door creaked open. Max stood in the doorway in the type of long burgundy dress he associated with the idle rich, not barefoot in a brothel. She held up his trousers, which were balled into a bundle in her hands. "I fixed your button."

"Where did you get them?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "You hung them outside of my room, did you not?"

"It's not important. Bring them here, would you?"

"

." She shook her head. Max never crossed the threshold when Anne wasn't present. None of the girls did, in the unlikely event any of them had occasion to seek him in his bedroom. He had never said anything to any of them about Anne's accusations, but Max was clever enough to realize just how volatile Anne was.

She tossed them onto the bed.

"My thanks. What's that sound?"

"Thunder."

"Are you sure?"

"Why would I not be sure?"

"Nevermind. Say, turn around?"

She turned away primly as he got out of bed. His pelvis was sore, but at least his skin was intact. Anne had a habit of scratching his back up, hard enough to draw blood. Once she had bitten his shoulder so hard that it had remained black and blue for a fortnight,and sore for twice that.

"Eleanor Guthrie is below to speak with you."

"I'm sorry, what?" He adjusted his trousers and buckled his swordbelt around his hips. "I could have sworn you just said Eleanor

."

"I did."

"Well, the only news that could bring her out in this must be tremendously bad. Though, hopefully, not for me. Shall we?"

He offered his arm, the picture of chivalry, but she demurred, which was all the better. Anne stood at the doorway to the street, speaking urgently to a broad man in a hat, but staring up all the while as he and Max walked down the steps. When he caught her eye, she walked out the door into the watery gray beyond The man she had been speaking to turned, and Jack found himself looking at the obnoxiously smiling face of Mark Read.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, stopping on the first step.

"Why Mr. Rackham," he beamed, "I had such a marvelous time last evening that I am back for a second course." He nodded towards the alcove against the stairs, where Idelle sat waiting… as did Alice.

"Mr. Rackham!"

Eleanor Guthrie was seated at his usual table, in his usual chair, which filled him with irritation. She waved impatiently, as though he wasn't aware she was there. He exhaled loudly and tried not to roll his eyes.

"Excuse me," he said, gesturing to Eleanor. "Enjoy yourself," he added magnanimously. He was not so foolish as to turn away perfectly good custom just because he wanted to punch through the grinning man's abdomen and yank out his entrails.

Max followed Jack over to the table, and he caught her arm as she moved to turn. "Miss Guthrie," he said, with an artificial smile. "Do you have any objection if Max remains?"

She furrowed her brow slightly, but shook her head. "Not at all."

He nodded and pulled out Max's chair, seating her with a flourish before folding himself into the remaining chair. "What sort of urgent business brings you out on such a miserable day?"

Eleanor turned from studying Max to regard him. "Mr. Rackham," she began, in her let's-make-a-deal voice, "As you know, I have formed a consortium, consisting of-"

"Did you really think I am not aware of the details? That

in Nassau is not aware of the details?"

Her cheeks colored slightly, but her voice was even. "Of course." Quickly, her eyes darted to Max, then back to Jack. He turned his palms up, an expectant gesticulation. "I want you to join."

It couldn't be avoided; he laughed aloud. "Me. You want me

to join your consortium. And what could benefit could that possibly have? I have a leaking roof, a score of prostitutes, and more than my fair share of wits. That's it. I have no crew. I have no guns. I have no

."

"That could be easily remedied."

He stared at Eleanor Guthrie without speaking for such a long time that she shifted uncomfortably. "Charles Vane." She swallowed hard. "He insisted on being allowed to join. He threatened to sink every ship in the harbour otherwise."

"I know."

"He means to make Nassau work to further his own agenda."

"I know that as well."

"I need you to help bring him under control."

"Under control

The man who showed up with a brace of logcutters and fired into the harbor. He is now holed up in the fort with said logcutters and basically ruling us all through fear and grapeshot."

"The others are afraid of him, except for perhaps Hornigold, but he isn't willing to chance Vane's wroth and have him destroy the fortress or the

. They're afraid of him… but you aren't."

"I most certainly

afraid of him, I'd be an idiot if I weren't. Especially since he's… well, since you cut us off and gave the

to Flint to take on his fool's errand. Vane took that very badly indeed."

"Yet you didn't leave him when I ordered the crew to declare for Flint or get the fuck off my doorstep."

"I had more pressing concerns."

"Yes, you did. I know he threatened to kill her if she crossed the line. And you wouldn't have left without her." Once again, her eyes darted to Max. They stayed there for a heartbeat before turning back to Jack. "You stayed."

"Nevertheless, things have just gone downhill from there, as you are well aware. The man is out of his proverbial tree. There is no reasoning with him."

"You're used to him. You were a member of his crew for a decade."

"Eleven years."

"All's the better then. You know how to speak to him."

With a sigh, Jack steepled his fingers in front of his face. He wanted to get back into the game as quickly as possible, but the fact that it contained a provision that he had to bring Vane to heel was enough to make him pause.

"In case you haven't recalled, he has been doing his best to make good on the threat that no man will let me join their crew, nor any man ever join a crew that I captain. Men don't like when one of their own chooses a woman over them. I don't need to remind you that it was a choice I had to make only after you and Miss Bonny decided to take matters into your own hands."

"I recall."

"So there's your answer then."

"The world is changing, Mr. Rackham. I myself am a woman, and understand that fact better than most. A large number of Geoffrey Lawrence's men have abandoned him. I know that many of them would be glad to follow you, as long as it means getting back to business. Nassau has a short memory. But I don't. I know what I cost you."

"Indeed."

Max had been sitting silently the entire time, following the conversation with her eyes, which gleamed almost greedily. He hoped it was for the reason he anticipated it was.

"And what am I to do with this place?" he asked, spreading his hands. "What am I to do with the whores? The lamps? The tree? And the snake in the tree? I've become rather attached to the snake in the tree."

She raised an eyebrow. "The whores will remain, as will the furnishings, but as for the snake, I'm sure you could take it with you."

"No, I don't think so. I imagine it would get into the rigging. We need to deal with this properly."

"The snake?"

"Among other things."

"What are you getting at?" Now she sounded uncertain.

"The future of the brothel. Nassau needs a brothel, or men are going to shun this port for one that is more… welcoming. That would help no one, least of all you and your partners. Mrs. Mapleton would not be like to come to an agreement on terms to take over this place that do not include seeing me hang."

"What you choose to do with this fucking place is your own decision, but it seems as though Max has been a more than adequate business partner. She knows the women, understands the business- which is more than I can say for you, Mr. Rackham." Eleanor cleared her throat. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes bright. She did not have the poker face that she thought she did, but it was no matter.

"Interesting." He stretched the word into four distinct syllables, though the idea of selling the brothel to Max had occurred to him weeks before, and he had been angling towards it as Eleanor had started dealing. "And this ship…."

"I will be meeting with Captain Edwards on the morrow. He is talking about retirement more than ever since this shit with my father, and I believe I can persuade him to let you take command of the

for the time being."

"The time being."

"Yes. Upon Flint's return, my plan is to give her to you, once she's refitted."

"You mean the

?" That made absolutely no sense. The last man she would wish to depose was Flint, especially if this

fairy story turned out to have merit after all.

"Don't be stupid. I mean to give you the

"

His cock twitched at the word, and it was only through supreme mental effort that he not did lift the table several inches with a sudden massive erection. "Assuming, of course, she returns," he replied, shifting in his seat.

"Oh, she'll return."

"You can't know that."

"She will."

"Indulge me. Say she doesn't."

"Then the

remains yours. But mark my words. The

will return. They both will." This time, Jack did not have to ask what ship she was referencing.

He nodded slowly. This was turning out to be better than he could have possibly hoped. The Vane issue was concerning, no doubt, but it wasn't as though he'd be going at it alone. If Eleanor Guthrie was right, he would be facing him across the table with four other captains… and an armed crew of his own, if it came down to it. He would be more than happy to trade whores for swords and a trickle of coin, no matter how steady, for the chance at massive prizes, and he trusted Max to keep the brothel running smoothly. Even if she didn't, it wouldn't matter to him. Above all, Anne would be thrilled. He couldn't wait to tell her.

Max spoke quietly for the first time since being seated. "When do you wish to accomplish all of this?"

"Why, right away," Eleanor replied. "I imagine it will take several days to arrange everything, and of course very little real work can be done until the weather clears, but I mean to have this settled within the week."

"That's very ambitious," Jack answered, drumming his finger against the tabletop. "But Max and I have things to discuss. And you have a ship to procure."

"So does this mean you're agreeing?"

"The

is twice as old as I am and the hull has more holes than all of my whore combined."

"I will make sure that she is outfitted properly before she reaches your hands."

He nodded. "Sold. And you?" He turned to Max and gave her a significant look. "Are you in agreement?"

Max's jaw was tense, face unreadable. For a moment, he was afraid that she would decline, and the whole works would come crashing down. But then she nodded. "

."

A disarming smile appeared without warning on her face, and for a moment Eleanor Guthrie looked almost girlish in her delight. "Wonderful."

They shook hands over the table, and Jack called for wine. After three glasses, one for each of their good fortune, Eleanor had taken her leave and Max had glided upstairs to mull over her future. Jack set off to find Anne. She was not far- standing at the railing of the covered porch, watching the rain with a frown.

"Darling."

She did not looked up. "What was important enough to bring the cunt out in the rain?"

"Just to grant us our dearest wish."

"What?"

He slipped his arms around her from behind, ignoring the uncomfortableness of her damp coat. She tensed but did not pull away. "She means to give us the

, " he murmured into her hair. It smelled of smoke and salt.

"Don't fuck with me, Jack. Not about this."

"I wouldn't dream of it." He explained the plan briefly, but it was not met with the reaction he had thought it would elicit. In fact, it was met with no reaction at all. "Well? What do you think?" He put a thumb under her chin and tilted it up to face him.

"The

's a piece o' absolute shit."

"Maybe so, but Miss Guthrie has assured me that it will be made to acceptable condition before we go aboard. Anyhow, it's only temporary, until the

returns."

The expression was like to curdle milk. "And why would she do all this for you?"

"I just told you. Have you forgotten how you solved her little issue with the remainder of our crew? She knows you will benefit just as much, if not more, than I will."

Anne snorted derisively. "Are you fucking her too?"

He shook his head, sure he had misheard. "Pardon me?"

"Her. The cunt. You fucking her as well?"

"Am I fucking Eleanor Guthrie? Have you gone

?" The thought was ludicrous to the point of being comical, but Anne was not joking.

"Are you?"

"You already know the answer. It's the same answer it's been on each and every occasion that you've accused me of fucking someone else. I'm beginning to think that one day you hope the answer changes." He grabbed her wrist as she squirmed away, and tightened so she could not pull away. "Jesus Christ, Anne, where is your head? Have you forgotten what we have been through together? Have you forgotten what I have given up for you?"

"I never asked you to."

"Not in words, true, but actions speak louder."

"Let go of me."

"Not until we settle this. And not just for today."

"You really don't understand, do you?"

"Understand

?" A mixture of desperation and exasperation made his voice raise on the last syllable.

"Fuck you, Jack. Fuck you."

She wrenched away and stalked down into the boggy street, turning towards the beach. Almost immediately, her clothes became three shades darker and twice as saggy as they soaked through.

"No, darling, you have it wrong this time- the only one you'll be fucking is yourself!" he shouted after her, loud enough to be heard over the rain, but she did not even glance back.

Anne did not make an appearance for the rest of the day. Jack had looked up every time someone had come through the door, but it was always someone else. It bothered him, but it wasn't exactly out of character for her. There was much else to think about anyhow, and all of that occupied his attention. Most of it, anyway.

The lamps were lit earlier than normal, to try and chase back some of the gloom that accompanied the miserable downpour. Every corner was wet, and water fell in narrow ribbons from the leaking roof. The girls had been entertaining a steady flow of customers for a most profitable sixty hours, and were starting to complain about being sore and exhausted. He had set them to work now in shifts, but it seemed as though the tide had turned. There were not as many customers as there had been, and those that remained decreased by the hour.

He had just settled down to supper, an entire roast chicken that was dripping grease onto the table where it hung over the plate. As he sawed at it with his knife, intent on not wasting a shred of meat, a shadow fell across him.

"At your service," he said, not looking up from his meal.

"Are you going to eat the whole thing?"

"I intend to." He looked up as Max sat down across from him, looking radiant as usual despite the damp. "It may be some time before I get the opportunity to do so again. I imagine this sort of ration isn't going to be available on the

Not for less than a dozen men, anyhow."

"Then why do it?"

He speared a chunk on his fork and pushed it into his mouth. It was searingly hot. "Delicious," he commented to no one in particular. A quick swipe of his hand brushed the grease from his mouth, and he swallowed before continuing. "Why do anything?"

"That is not an answer."

"I suppose it isn't." He paused long enough to eat another bite. "Because it's what I know, and what I love."

"You do not love this?"

He took a swig of rum, thought about it, and had another. "No, I don't love this at all."

"But you did it."

"What else was I to do? We had no coin for passage elsewhere. I'm too old to be a cabin boy. Nassau already has a wheelwright. I'd be a shit chandler. So when the opportunity presented itself, I took it." He gestured to the pile of mangled chicken, which was rapidly disappearing down his throat. "Help yourself."

She lifted a sliver with her fingers and ate it with quick, bird-like bites. "So you mean to go through with this."

"Certainly. As soon as Miss Guthrie gives the word that all is set, this place is yours. None of the girls will cry. They won't even notice, most like." He had to avert his eyes as she licked the grease slowly from her fingers in a most enticing way. "I'll move our things down to the

at once. It's past time a rocking ship lulled me to sleep."

"We have not discussed our arrangements yet." She picked up another morsel of chicken and nibbled at it.

"I imagine that's why you're here." Jack sat back, chewing a massive mouthful of food and handing her a napkin before she could lick her fingers again.

"I want to make sure that you're not going to fuck me at the last minute."

"I'm not in the position to be be fucking anyone on anything." He grimaced at the double entendre. "I'll sell it to you for five."

"I should have know you would not make this easy, but five thousand pieces of eight is criminal. Even for a pirate."

He laughed. "Not five thousand. Five. Five pieces of eight."

"You are joking."

"I assure you, I am not."

"And why would you do this?"

"I didn't pay a cent for this midden heap in the first place, so it's not like I'd be losing money. Besides, it's brought me nothing but trouble. I'm not a whoremonger, I'm a ship's quartermaster."

"From what I understand, you are a ship's captain."

"Soon enough, God willing. But let's not get ahead of ourselves." He shoveled another forkful of chicken into his mouth and watched as a baby-faced whore with hair like cornsilk ascended the stairs with a man in a garish scarf. "Martha will be glad to see the back of me. She ignores me when I speak."

"Martha?" Max looked confused.

"You know. Martha." He pointed at her. "On her way up the stairs. Fine hair. Big cheeks. Bigger arse."

She followed the direction of his finger. "You are an idiot. Her name is not Martha. It's Ginny."

Another swig of rum chased another mouthful of chicken. "Well, no wonder she ignores me. Who is Martha then?"

The look she gave him was positively disdainful. "We do not have anyone named Martha."

He shrugged. "Just goes to show you, you're much better suited to run this place than I am." With a hiccup, he pushed away the plate. The chicken carcass was mostly bare. "New Orleans?"

"What?"

"Your accent. Are you from New Orleans?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I have never been to the Americas."

"Ah, I thought I had it figured out. I was born in Cuba, myself. English parents, if you couldn't tell. Nice people. They still live there. I left home at sixteen, took passage to England, where I stayed for a few years. Worked on a farm, if you can believe it. Hated every minute of it."

"Why are you telling me this?" She was suspicious, and he supposed that was rightly so. Sharing histories was frowned upon in Nassau.

"I'm about to embark on a fairly dangerous career advancement. Vane may kill me. Anne may kill me. Someone else might kill me. The sea might kill me, in a mighty example of irony. Someone ought to know the truth about ol' Jack."

"Oh." After a brief silence, she asked, "Then what happened?"

"After I got tired of England? Well, I went to the south of France for a time. Lovely wine. Fine weather. Beautiful women. Got tired of it too, though. Decided to try my hand at the Americas. Whilst on the way over, the ship I was on got caught in a massive storm. I thought we were all going to die. It was exhilarating. They had to drag me off the deck.

"When we reached Virginia, I decided I didn't much fancy a life back on land, so I stayed on. That took some talking. It didn't take long before I fell in with Hamilton's privateers. Vane and I met at a tavern in Port Royal, before the

, back when his ship was a little sloop called the

We struck up a conversation. He was so drunk that he laughed when I told him

was a pet name for one's maiden aunt, not a pirate ship."

"You said this thing to him?"

"Vane was a different man back then. Always been dangerous, but… well, it was a long time ago. I joined up with him the very next day. I had left home nine years before, but that first trip with his crew, I felt like I hadn't learned a thing about the world in that time."

He brought his glass to his lips, only to find that it was empty. She poured him a sizeable helping from the heavy green bottle on the table.

"Thank you." He drank. "I learned then, though, especially once I killed my first man. And I stayed on. Rose through the ranks. I was there when he took the

, you know

It wasn't called that then. I'd tell you I suggested the name, but that would categorically false. After McCloskey died, I became quartermaster. Not a man complained, to me or to Charles. That was six years ago." He tapped off the number of years on the table with his forefinger. "Three years ago I met Anne, at Miss Guthrie's tavern. That was just after Missus Guthrie died, when Eleanor and Vane still played house when we were in port."

He looked up from his reminiscing, suddenly aware of what he was saying. She waved away his discomfort.

"Anne was looking for someone to kill her husband."

"And you offered to do this for her?"

"No, I tried to talk her out of it. I offered to give her a divorce by purchase, though I'd barely met her an hour previous. She threatened to cut off my balls. Said she wasn't an animal, and she wouldn't be bought like one." Jack smiled at the memory.

"And that is when you fell in love with her?"

He stared off into the middle distance as if he were seeing Anne for the first time all over again. In his mind, he was. "The

left with the tide the next morning. I hadn't slept more than an hour or two. Slade had to kick me in the ribs to wake me up, elsewise I'd have missed it.

"I didn't imagine I'd ever see her again, yet I couldn't stop thinking about her. All day, all night. I could hear her voice in the waves, all rough and low. The water on the horizon was the same color as her eyes. At night, when the sun set, it reminded me of the color of her hair. She drove me insane and I didn't even know her name.

"It was nine days before we returned, bringing back a decent prize. I had decided the first order of business upon setting foot on shore was to find myself a redheaded whore and fuck her senseless, exorcising the woman in the tavern from my mind in the process. But lo and behold, she was waiting on the beach as we unloaded, that red hair blowing in the wind. While we were out to sea, she had paid some sailor two reales to slit her husband's throat as he slept. She came with me to my tent that night. I had been with a dozen women before, likely more, but I shook like a maid on her wedding night the entire time. After that, she never left."

Jack lapsed into silence. Rain splattered onto the table beside him, but he did not seem to notice. Skirting the puddle it made, Max reached over and rested her fingers lightly on his. He raised his eyes to meet hers.

"Mr. Rackham-"

"Jack."

"Jack." She rolled his name around her tongue, making it sound terribly exotic. "It is not my wish to be cruel, but you need to know."

"Know what, exactly?" He arched an eyebrow at her.

"Idelle told me that that man she was with, that Dutchman, he was asking after Anne. She explained to him, she told me, that Anne is not for sale, but he did not let that stop him."

His stomach, stuffed as it was with chicken and rum, lurched. "Go on."

"He came in early. Sat by himself until Anne emerged. They spent most of the morning talking, until you came down to see Eleanor. He seemed very earnest. You saw them. Then, after you spoke with Anne, and she left… well, so did he. Quickly."

Jack swore. He had been too distracted. He hadn't even noticed that the smiley bastard was gone. "And you think she is with him."

Max shrugged. "I do not know, but… the girls tell me he has taken a room at the lodging house at the end of the street. Perhaps you should go look for yourself."

He exhaled loudly. "I know how she is. Likely she is holed up on the beach somewhere, drinking and brooding." The words were just as much to convince himself as to convince Max. "If she is with him now, and I go over, I fear that may just make things worse."

"Of course." She glanced toward the window, and the storm beyond. Though she said nothing, Jack knew what she was thinking- that there was no way Anne was holed up anywhere except with Mark Read.

"I will give her until the morning. If she isn't back by then… well, then I will go investigate the lodging house."

Her warm hand squeezed his fingers tightly, and she gave him a sad smile. "That sounds reasonable. I am sorry that I caused you pain."

"You didn't."

"When you move to the

, you can always return here if you wish. Your money is no good within these walls."

"I won't say I'm not touched by your gesture. Especially because I may find myself with an acute need for a whore sooner rather than later."

"Not for whores. Though if you wish to, you may. I meant for rum. A bed. A meal. A friend. Whatever I can provide for you."

"Thank you."

She nodded, then got to her feet. As she moved away, she leaned over to whisper in his ear. "Dominica. That is where I was born. One day I will tell you the rest of the story." She kissed his cheek lightly and moved away into the shadows beyond the table.

The conversation with Max seemed as far away as Whitehall, thought it was only the night before. Jack watched as the dark-haired woman ran her finger around the lip of her glass, making it hum.

"Mary Read. I must say, you had me convinced. The whores as well." Had any of the girls suspected that Mark Read was actually a woman, the whole brothel would have known in minutes. Loose lips sank ships, but kept the brothel's wheels turning.

"Years of practice," she replied, drinking deeply from her wine. She flashed that red-lipped grin at him again, and he silently cursed himself for a fool for not having seen it for what it was sooner, the smile of a woman who knew what she wanted.

He looked at Anne, whose face was unreadable. "Was she as surprised as I am to learn the truth?"

"Oh, aye. She did not believe me when I told her. I had to provide her with proof." Slowly, she crossed one leg over the other, making sure he saw without a doubt that she was indeed entirely a woman.

He cleared his throat. "Your proof in … undeniable."

"You may think that it stopped her from receiving my advances, but you would be wrong. Does that shock you?"

It certainly surprised him, but he kept his expression even. "The only thing that might shock me is why you felt compelled to disguise yourself as a man in the first place."

"I could tell you why." Anne took a swig from a bottle on the small table beside the bed and wiped her mouth. "So she didn't have to put up with all the shit I've had to put up with."

"You're right,

."

"Don't call me that."

"It's a term of affection. It means 'dove.'" Mary explained.

"I don't give a fuck what it means, don't call me it."

The other woman nodded. "As you wish." She brushed a long strand of hair back from her face.

"That can't be the only reason."

"It could. But it is not. Being Mark instead of Mary makes it easier to… meet a woman, shall we say."

It was all coming together for Jack. A number of whores he had met in his brief stint as a brothel owner were not discriminating when it came to who was paying for their time, but plenty more were. And if one was not in the mood to pay, he imagined that finding someone else that shared the same proclivities was nigh on impossible without alienating a large number of those that did not.

"I married a Dutch sailor I met in Portsmouth when I was fifteen. It didn't take long to discover that he was only a little bit interested in what I had between my legs, and I was only a little bit interested in what he had. We went back to Rotterdam and bought an inn near the harbor. Whenever we fancied, he dressed me up like a man and we went to sea for a time, traveling from place to place, fucking whomever we pleased. When we could not find anyone we liked, we fucked each other. It was a marvelous arrangement. The day he died was the saddest day of my life. But it also meant I was free."

"You're awfully trusting with this information," Jack replied, after a gulp or three of wine. He sauntered over to the bottle on the table and filled his glass to the brim. It was becoming evident that he would, indeed, need it. "What's to stop me from telling someone? And I assure you, I know a great deal of people. You'd have to travel many miles to find a place where you can play your little game without everyone already whispering to themselves what you are."

"Maybe so. But you won't."

"And why is that?"

"Because Anne came here with a specific purpose in mind, Mr. Rackham, and it wasn't to sing for me."

"Shut your mouth," Anne growled.

"You had much to say to me about his mistreatment of you. You told me he always put his needs and desires above yours. I promise, I would never do those things to you."

Jack spun to face Anne, slopping an inch of wine down his front in the process. "Is this true?"

She fixed Mary Read with a dangerous look. "Aye, it's true. But I was angry."

Mary returned Anne's stare. "She was more than angry. She nearly wept. I would have comforted her, but here you are. You owe me, Mr. Rackham. But I am willing to offer you an exchange."

"I don't want anything you have."

"I believe you do. You see, Anne told me much and more before you came through those doors. You won't like most of it. But now that we've all shared secrets, if you let me share Anne for the evening, I will keep yours to the grave."

"She is not mine to lend out."

"What the fuck d'ya mean by that?" Anne asked, eyes blazing.

"That you are not my property, darling. Only that. You've always been free to do as you wish. And if you wish to spend the night with… this person, then you can do so. I don't need to give my permission."

Anne's expression changed minutely as she stared at him. Her jaw was set firmly, but the suspicion in her eyes softened, just enough that Jack noticed. Before he could react, she turned to Mary Read. "And if I give you what you want, you'll leave me alone and never say another word of this?"

"If that is what you want."

"I want you to fuckin' leave and not come back, is what I want."

"As you wish. As soon as the weather improves, I will leave Nassau, and I will keep your secrets."

"You will. Or I'll slit your throat, no matter what you are."

When Jack woke the next morning, he didn't know where he was. The rain's incessant tapping was missing. Light streamed into the room, but the window was on the wrong wall. The bed was all turned around, the bedclothes were abnormally soft and smelled strongly of perfume.

His arms and neck and hips ached, his back was sore, and he was acutely aware of being naked, slightly sticky, and very crowded. On his left, Anne stirred. He looked down.

For the second time in less than a day, it wasn't Anne.

He sat up all at once, suddenly remembering the night before. Anne was still asleep on his right, at the edge of the bed as she usually was, as though she was preparing to bolt for the door even in sleep. On the other side, Mary Read was curled up beneath the blanket and sleeping like a babe, her hair spread over the pillow.

Carefully, he extricated himself from the bed without waking either of the women. His clothes were strewn across the floor, mixed in with Anne's. It took him several minutes to dress, as he moved very slowly, trying to be quiet. He was lacing his breeches when Anne spoke.

"Where are you going?" she asked. She was still in the same position, but watching him through narrow eyes.

"Back to the brothel."

She slid out of the bed and picked up her shirt, slipping it over her head.

"What are you doing?"

"What the fuck does it look like?"

"You've made your choice."

" ' The fuck are you on about?"

He waved vaguely to the bed. "You know. Your choice."

She nodded slowly. "Aye."

"Is this going to be one of those things that we don't discuss?"

Wordlessly, she finished dressing and directed him out of the bedroom. A few minutes later, they emerged onto the street, blinking in the sunlight that seemed abnormally brilliant after days of darkness. Together, they turned toward the harbor.


End file.
